


Remembering How to Breathe

by unwittingcatalyst



Series: Season Three Missing Scenes [4]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e13 No Country For Old Dads, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-05-19 20:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14880759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwittingcatalyst/pseuds/unwittingcatalyst
Summary: This story follows thematically from three earlier stories in the series--"Nice and Weird," "To Feel the Way that Every Child Should," and now "Asylum."*Excerpts from Chapter 3:He could not help but believe that the frightened kid they’d known then was more real than this woman with the electric prod who wanted to prove herself to her murderous dad. Dimly, Ray realized that this belief in someone who was this very moment torturing him was perhaps not the healthiest thought he could be having. That didn’t make it wrong.…But it counted now as Stockholm Syndrome, he had to admit ruefully. He really shouldn’t be as concerned about Nora—it shouldn’t hurt so much to see her like this, even as she used the prod to create agony in his hand. It spasmed without his control and his raspy scream was close to a sob.And if he was experiencing Stockholm Syndrome, so was she.





	1. Chapter 1:  alone

**Author's Note:**

> In "No Country for Old Dads," after Ray records the message on his phone, he says to Damien Darhk, "OK, I've done as you asked. So no more torture today, right?" 
> 
> This story begins with what happens offscreen as implied by that line of dialogue. Eventually, the story will be about recovery and healing.

Ray woke in a gray room, tied to a chair, to his own screaming and to all-consuming pain from the sharp sting of an electric prod at his temple.

He felt small muscles in his face twitch. At first he couldn’t see anything but the flash of light and many small dark spots. 

When his vision cleared, there were three of them—not only the Darhks, father Damien and daughter Nora, but also Kuasa, who’d tried to drown him all those months ago in 2042, when they’d met Zari.

They took turns with the torture, sometimes all three of them in the room, sometimes two or one.

Kuasa’s preferred method was strangely intimate, given that it involved holding him as he was bound in the chair and pulling his head back as she poured water into his nose and mouth.

Each time he felt a primal panic rise in him, and then she’d abruptly stop and step back. He’d choke out the water as best he could, an intolerable burning in his nose, his throat increasingly sore and stinging from coughing out the water, an acid taste remaining in the very back of his throat. 

She’d wait until he could breathe again, allow a few deep breaths—and then she’d do it again.

Nora played with the electric prod. The way her face became curious and childlike as she tentatively tried out different settings and different parts of his body was heartbreakingly disturbing. He couldn’t help but remember her thirteen year old self that he and Zari had tried to help in the asylum and in that coffeeshop. Thankfully, she kept her attacks “proper,” never going below the belt, but the sting still left him involuntarily screaming each time. After a while he noticed the distinct smell of ionized air. 

When he could speak, he begged her to stop, argued that the torture would do no good, but she seemed more fascinated by how the prod abruptly stopped his pleading, and in trying different ways to increase his screaming, and didn’t seem to be listening to him at all.

Damien Darhk smiled an indulgent smile as Ray gasped and cried out in pain. Nora glanced over at her father, and Ray could see her searching her father’s face for approval. She wanted, Ray realized, to make him proud of her.

Damien Darhk’s go to method was choking via his magic, though he also played with the electric prod, sometimes with Nora there, showing her settings and techniques. Sometimes, though, he moved his hand in the way he did when he was choking, someone with his magic, but Ray could still breathe just fine—but Ray felt deeply strange, panicked and as though a million ants were crawling inside of him. He never knew exactly what this was but he suspected the man was doing something to his blood, perhaps slowing down the flow of it.

They usually kept him tied to the chair, wrists bound in front of him. The room was plain but the time period they were in had to be 20th century or later—the off-white and darker grey cinderblock painted walls and the floating arm floor lamps plugged in to 3 pronged GFCI outlets told him that. 

During the torture sessions, sunlight streamed in from windows behind him. When the light from those windows faded and the only light left was from fluorescent ceiling lights, they left him alone.

He was secured to the chair still and wasn’t going anywhere. 

Still, he allowed himself a few minutes of out of control struggle. It did nothing to help him get free or to give him any sense of power or hope.

He stopped and breathed hard. He felt in his throat, in the pained buzzing in his head, in the aches of his muscles, the echoes of what they’d done to him that day. Memories of his crewmates came into his mind then-- _Sara’s mischievous laughter, Mick’s grumpy scowl, Zari’s wry grin _\--__

____

____

A sensation welled up in him at these thoughts, not from the torture but from him, a pressure in his chest and behind his eyes, and his eyes were stinging. He was never going to see them again. The tears came convulsively then, washing through him. The certain knowledge of his irrevocable aloneness left him sobbing helplessly.

A part of him wanted to make the argument for hope--he’s always been good at that, and people had come to expect it of him, that almost impossible optimism. But there was no one to be optimistic for, and he was too overwhelmed to manage it. In the clinical harshness of the fluorescent ceiling lights, his face chilled from tears not yet dried, he felt a strange relief to let go of hope and to face squarely how grim his situation was.

Eventually, he was able to sleep for what might have been an hour or two, slumped in the chair, head hanging.


	2. Chapter 2:  Damien Darhk

Damien Darhk’s cheerful voice roused him. He already had the electric prod ready in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. Before Ray could say anything, the man had turned the prod on and he was screaming.

At first, when they brought food and let him use an adjoining bathroom, he started to feel better about things. He stumbled, dizzy, his legs barely able to support him as he made his way to the bathroom. He had to stop and try to breathe once he got there. 

He stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, unable to see any marks on his skin from the electric prod. They’d been careful in the settings to make sure of that while still causing the most pain possible. That expertise was disturbing, as was how they were providing basic needs to him. He knew that by doing that they were prolonging the time they’d have to torture him. He shuddered at his own sense of gratitude to them that the food was decent, the shower hot on aching, tense muscles. That was a dangerous path, he knew, and yet he could not help it.

When they left him with good food and water, he found he was hungrier than he thought he’d be, though he noticed his hands shook as he ate and his appreciation of the food mingled with a sickening despair.

*

Two or three days in, Ray discovered that one method he had for coping with the captivity was to talk. Most of the time, they didn’t give him a chance, but for some reason they sometimes paused the torture for a while. His vision still fuzzy from a round with the electric prod, he started talking to Damien Darhk. He gave all the arguments why torture was an ineffective and unreliable interrogation technique.

“What, were you talking to me?” Darhk said, finally. As Ray’s vision began to return, he thought he saw Darhk looking at his phone.

Ray repeated the key points of his argument, earnestly. It helped, somehow, to name what they were doing to him torture—naming it gave him just the tiniest bit of control back.

“Oh!” Darhk said. “Of course, you’re right,” Darhk admitted easily, genially. “But, I’m not torturing you for information. I’m torturing you because it’s _fun_.”

Ray just stared blankly at him.

*

For days—Ray lost track of how many--they asked nothing of him. Ray knew they would want things from him, but they seemed content to wear him down before forcing him to do work for them.

Ray grimly determined they’d make him do nothing that would harm his team or anyone else, and he tried to hold to that, tried to be ready for that moment. When it didn’t come, that too wore him down, the anticipation of escalation and demands. 

When they finally did demand that he leave a message for the crew of the Waverider on his phone, he did so without resistance. They asked him to say they’d eventually let him go—an obvious lie—and to include a red herring about where and when they were. Finally, he was instructed to tell his teammates that if they tried to find him, his captors would kill him. The message was not something that would be harmful to them. Automatically, he tried to not show his friends how bad it had been, but he could not muster any real cheerfulness.

He hoped that after that they’d leave him alone, at least for a while, and Ray recognized this hope as one of the main ways he was being trained to torture himself. Of course, they did not.


	3. Chapter 3:  Nora Darhk

It was afternoon, and was perhaps the fourth day.

Nora was doing something with the electric prod. It felt a bit new. Not easier. Nothing was easier--each attack inevitably worse than the last no matter what he tried to do to cope. 

Uselessly, automatically, he tried to dodge the electricity, shifting from side to side in the chair, though the twine that held him prevented much of that and it scraped already raw skin through his clothes. The attacks were coming frequently enough that he couldn’t see anything and he was beyond the ability to talk coherently, or otherwise. He made sounds that were meant to be protests, though even he was too far away to hear them properly.

He was deep in his head to escape it all, where he tried to conduct a debate with himself.

Did it count as Stockholm Syndrome if he’d already come to care about the person before the captivity began?

He could not get the image of her as a kid out of his mind. Nora had been wary, thoughtful, and smart—

_\--Nora’s shy smile to Zari--_

_\--joy at the caramel laced hot chocolate they’d gotten her--_

_\--longing on her face when her father had shown up--_

_\--Nora looking pinched and lost, shoulders hunched, as she’d stood next to him and to the woman from the asylum ready to take her back-- ___

__She’d been so lonely._ _

__He could not help but believe that the frightened kid they’d known then was more real than this woman with the electric prod who wanted to prove herself to her murderous dad. Dimly, Ray realized that this belief in someone who was this very moment torturing him was perhaps not the healthiest thought he could be having. That didn’t make it wrong._ _

_\--the jolt of horror as he’d seen Mallus possess her (again)--_

_\--the smugly smiling Damien Darhk--_

_\--a twisting wrench in his stomach as he’d seen her leave with him, but Ray couldn’t blame her: this was her father, who she still loved, who she had mourned for and missed, and Nora utterly alone in that asylum--_

____No, his worry for the person who’d just pulled a short, sharp cry out of him (he tried to block it all out even more—not really possible but all he could do was try--) predated this situation. And yet—he still felt it now. He thought how empty things must have been for her, how vulnerable to her father’s manipulations, and he felt how unspeakably sad it was that she’d been brought to this, that she’d become someone eager to hurt in order to earn scraps of approval from her father._ _ _ _

____He thought of what she must have endured to have chosen what she had. She still suffered because of the demon her father had allowed to possess her._ _ _ _

____But it counted now as Stockholm Syndrome, he had to admit ruefully. He really shouldn’t be as concerned about Nora—it shouldn’t hurt so much to see her like this, even as she used the prod to create agony in his hand. It spasmed without his control and his raspy scream was close to a sob._ _ _ _

____And if he was experiencing Stockholm Syndrome, so was she. Damien was certainly clueless on that score. Damien Darhk, for all his calculating intelligence, really did think he was doing best by her, and really did love her—his sharp and immediate agreement to the exchange, the expression on his face as she’d been dying (because of Ray’s own action)—they made it blindingly obvious._ _ _ _

____Ray’s vision was clearing and he looked warily at Nora as she fiddled with the prod’s settings. It still tore something inside him to see her like this. What he’d said to Mick was right—she could have travelled such a different path, and even now could still be better—she’d had so much good in her._ _ _ _

____Then she looked up with a sly smile and he winced and turned his head away. She brought the prod to the side of his neck under his ear. Inescapable pain radiated through him, his scream strangled by the convulsing of his muscles. Pressure in his chest and neck became abruptly unbearable then and everything went suddenly, mercifully, black._ _ _ _


	4. Chapter 4:  Damien again

Darhk was reading the paper when he noticed that the screaming had stopped from the room where they were keeping the prisoner. Then, he heard Nora give a frustrated cry.

He folded the paper back up, set it next to his recently empty dinner plate, and got up to see what the problem was.

She was muttering over the electric prod. “Something is wrong with this thing.”

“Nora doll—“ he appeased.

“I was trying to augment it with my magic, and then it just—“ she glanced over at the prisoner, whose head was down, unmoving, his face ashen under the muss of hair.  
Dead? That would be mildly inconvenient. Damien held his hand up and tried to halt the prisoner’s pulse, and found he could do so—there was in fact a pulse to stop. He then restored the pulse after a few moments. 

“Tell me,” Damien encouraged her.

“I wanted to see if I could increase the pain with my magic. And then he just—passed out.”

“Show me,” Damien said, intrigued. “Here, let me—“ he held his hand out again and abruptly the prisoner jerked awake, eyes unfocused. “Now try.”

Nora touched the prod to the prisoner’s neck, an expression of great concentration on her face. The device sparked and the prisoner screamed, face twisted in agony—and then he slumped bonelessly again.

“That doesn’t happen when I don’t use my magic,” Nora pondered.

Damien smiled, delighted. “Nora! You’ve innovated! You’ve increased the pain level beyond what the device alone can do, and beyond what a human can endure—and, voila.”

She smiled at him, with a bit of shyness, clearly pleased to have his approval.

“Be careful not to overdo it—if we want him alive we don’t want to cause cardiac arrest.”

“Of course. I know that much,” Nora said, pouting.

Oh dear. So touchy. This fatherhood thing was much more treacherous than he’d accounted for.

*  
Later, after he followed Nora, who was still a bit huffy, and calmed her down, Damien returned and experimented with the prod and his magic together himself, after first reviving the prisoner again of course.

Damien waited this time for full consciousness, for wide terrified eyes that narrowed after a few moments, matching the stubborn, slightly resentful set of his mouth.

Then Damien gathered his magic and used the prod, and was rewarded with a desperate hoarse cry that cut off abruptly. It was most satisfying, he had to admit.

“Huh,” Damien Darkh said, regarding the electric prod curiously. “Didn’t know that was possible. Good for you, Nora doll.” He glanced at Kuasa, who was reading a paperback in the corner and looking bored. “This opens up some intriguing possibilities.”

She looked at him, unimpressed, and walked out of the room with her book. She didn’t bother glancing at their captive, who now sagged in the chair bonelessly. Damien checked again to make sure the slumped figure still lived, just in case. He was certain they’d discover a use for their prisoner besides entertainment soon. He was a patient man.


	5. Chapter 5: despair and remembering

He could not distinguish one day from another any more—some days they fed him, some they didn’t, some days followed nights when he’d been so exhausted he had actually slept much of the night through, others followed nights when he could not sleep. When sleep wouldn’t come, he spent his time in the room with too bright lamps and dark corners talking to himself raspily (no one listening could have understood him, his voice mostly gone), or deliberately thinking of happy memories from the Waverider, or desperately trying to breathe.

When they weren’t attacking him, he stared at the gray cinderblock wall in front of him, the only sound usually his own labored breathing. A thousand sensations unnerved him then. He could often taste the sour sharpness and sting of stomach acid from nearly throwing up after electric shock or drowning, and sometimes blood from having inadvertently bitten his mouth or tongue during electric shock-produced convulsions. He was starting to become ill at the odor of ozone from the electric prod, and the smells of food from the other room where his captors ate meals—toasted bread, tomato sauce, fried fish, pizza—made him both queasy and hungry at once.

His legs and feet became numb with a tingling pain more frequently as the days passed. He tried to wake them up through shifting and stomping his feet as best he could in his chair, though the sound of the chair scraping on the cement floor when he did that startled him and made him fear it could summon his captors. It also hurt, to do that, but at least it was a pain he could control.

They were such small things, but he could barely stand it sometimes, the collar ends of his jacket that irritated the tender skin at his neck where he’d been repeatedly strangled, or the uncomfortable chill of his trousers wet against his thighs after he’d coughed out water on them. His throat never seemed to stop burning, or aching, or feeling bruised. It often felt like something was wrapped around his throat, pulling tight to the point of pain, though he knew nothing was there. Even after days mostly stuck in the chair, he still jerked his bound arms with the effort to reach up and check.

When he swallowed to try to get the bitter taste of the contents of his stomach out of his mouth, the increased ache in his throat sent a panic through him, and he coughed and couldn’t breathe again, his vision whiting out, but never to the blissful point of unconsciousness—no, instead he’d be trapped in the blurry terror of it, mouth too dry, heart pounding, 

He did not know when it happened, what moment that he lost the will to escape. He only knew that it was Damien Darkh who trained it out of him: the choking. At the slightest sign of resistance—trying to free his hands, or paying too much attention to the layout of the room, or letting the fury that sometimes pushed through him turn into a glare or a too determined expression—Darkh would choke him. It wasn’t long before even the slightest pressure of an invisible hand at his throat, the barest beginning of a choke, froze him. 

It was useless to try, anyway—he knew now he was outnumbered and alone. He thought how weeks, months, years could pass for him here while only an hour would for his friends on the Waverider, though he doubted he’d survive much longer than a few weeks of this treatment. The isolation and despair of that thought also felt like drowning. 

He hated this feeling of numb defeat, hated his own helplessness. It scared him even more than the torture or threat of torture did, because he knew with a twisting dread what it could mean for him and for people he cared about, this wearing away at his resistance and at his very sense of who he was.

So while he gave up on trying to escape, he focused what energy he could on a different kind of resistance, on holding on to what mattered most. He couldn’t get free—and yet, in his own mind, he could, and when they came at him with drowning or choking or electric shock, he instinctively fled into his memories. His body still screamed, twitched, choked out water, tried uselessly to take in air, all without his consciously having to do much about it, and he was elsewhere, trying to reach for _the rooms on the Waverider, the peace of the lab, the voices and faces of his teammates._

He knew this was dissociation, knew this was not healthy. It was, however, the best he could do, the only thing he could still try to control. He’d always been good at it, through decades of practice since childhood, imagining stories and recalling dear memories to give himself solace.

During the day, he was lucky to manage any brief image of safety—the simple joys of _working on the dishes in the galley, the slipperiness of the dishwater, the squeak of a clean plate, the smell of lavender dishsoap, or eating together with his friends--Mick’s favorite salami sandwich, Zari’s maple donuts, the crisp tang of a slice of green apple._ Glimpses. Trying to remember at all helped him escape the pain and terror, just a little. 

At night, he had leisure to remember more distinctly, and he thought of each of his teammates—his friends—in turn:  
_  
\--the quirk of Sara’s smile and the sure way she’d give orders that told Ray she had their backs;_

_\--the way he’d come to trust Mick’s gruff presence and the complete certainty that Mick watched out for him;_

_\--Gideon’s cheerful steadiness and the occasional inflections in her voice that showed her care for the crew;_

_\--Amaya’s sharp, amused look, the respect in her eyes that he valued more than he’d ever told her (he should have told her, he thought with a pang);_

_\--Nate’s easy friendship, offered with enthusiastic warmth, and the quiet pride Ray felt at seeing him grow steadily in confidence;_

_\--Zari’s not so easy friendship, offered with wariness at first and then later with a laughing generosity—and her defiant courage, unbowed in the face of horrific grief._

Thinking of them made him cry, and he couldn’t really spare the tears—Kuasa’s torture dried out his mouth and throat, and the access they gave him to drinking water was sporadic and unreliable. He did it anyway.

*

When, for a full two days, they stopped the torture, let him sleep flat on the floor with blankets and an actual pillow, and provided decent food and water consistently, Ray felt his nervousness grow. This meant he had a chance to recover from the assaults, and it also meant he had a chance to feel them. 

After vomiting out the first full meal he’d seen in days, he ate eagerly the next, his body craving the sustenance. He was exhausted enough that, otherwise, he slept through most of those two days.

He woke, once, kicking at the leaves he’d used to keep warm in the Cretaceous. He froze in terror at the rustling sound, afraid of having been heard, at night predators finding his shelter and attacking—

\--until he emerged from that nightmare into the heavy darkness of the room where they tortured him, and he realized he’d only been kicking at the blankets. He still felt the echo of sharp pains up his aching leg that had been torn open by vicious teeth. He remembered that had taken months to heal.

He shook from the memory, yet thought he might prefer the loneliness and danger of being stranded in the Cretaceous to his present nightmarish reality.

He speculated endlessly about what it meant that they gave him food and let him sleep outside that chair: they were going to use him for something? Kill him? Return again to torture after he got some strength back? 

The uncertainty and anticipation of that were a new torment.

He escaped that too with memories and with actual dreams, though too often the Darhks and Kuasa found him there, in the dreams.

*

He was back in the chair, but they were leaving him alone. His body now used to food again, he was thinking of what he’d have if he was on the Waverider--poached eggs and coffee with butter and MCT oil. He could almost taste it. His voice was back too, and so he talked about it. He wasn’t expecting anyone to pay attention to him.

*

Then, finally, brandishing the electric prod, they made a demand that he could refuse, and he told them defiantly if tiredly that he wouldn’t do it and they’d have to kill him. Though he did not, in fact, want to die, he did very much want not to feel fear or pain anymore, and he did not think that death would be as difficult to face as more torture.

Nora matter-of-factly grabbed a knife and was ready to kill him then. But Damien Darkh had another idea: “Maybe I’ll just murder a young Sandy Palmer picking her sons up from Ivy Springs daycare, 1982.”

And—that was that. He knew he’d have to do what they asked, and find a way in the process to turn things around and trick them.


	6. Chapter 6:  Bernhard Vogel

For Ray, it was surreal being in the hat shop that was also a secret forgery lab that was also a home. Immersed in the tasks of fashioning fake documents with Bernhard Vogel, who was a friendly soul when he wasn’t obviously terrified, Ray could almost forget he was still a captive.

The place was comfortable and welcoming, with its soft yellow lamps and scents of rose and lavender and dust. These mixed with the odors of glues and paper, and the more pungent chemicals in the humid, musty, cave-like dark room, including the metallic sweetness of developing fluid and the acrid smell of fixer. All this was a refreshing change from the gray room. 

He and Bernhard worked on photography and documents while Nora occupied herself in the other room. Ray thought how odd and unlikely it was that he had a chance to talk with the scientist who’d uncovered the secret of cold fusion.

They didn’t talk about cold fusion, of course—Vogel was quietly adamant about that in a way that drew Ray’s admiration—and Ray didn’t want to reveal anything that might put Vogel in more danger than he was already in, and that meant no talk of time-travel.

Ray started with an apology. “I am sorry I startled you when I said what I said—about the expiration date.”

“I was supposed to have been killed. I know. Not your fault.”

“It was thoughtless, how I said that.”

“It’s not shocking to me that someone is out to kill me.” He spoke deliberately low to make sure Nora would not hear. “I have colleagues who were pursuing similar lines of work, in all parts of the world—some helped me with early stages of my work—but they were all either bribed or threatened to persuade them to discontinue. Thank heavens, none of them were killed over it.”

“Why didn’t you stop?”

“Ah, some would say I’m a fool. I didn’t take the danger seriously, at first. I was too preoccupied with the joy of it—so satisfying, to find the precise formulations.”

Ray nodded, and they shared a smile of mutual understanding. 

“By the time I understood how much trouble I was in, it was nearly too late. I had not realized that my family could be in danger as well. I delayed the final work until they were safely out. And then,” he shrugged, “I continued.”

“Tell me about your family,” Ray invited, and Vogel spoke of them, to Ray at least, readily. A little girl named Greta with her mother’s grey eyes and Bernhard’s sandy hair, lively and stubborn. A wife with the practicality Bernhard said he himself lacked—she’d been the one to make the arrangements for their departure. As he spoke Ray noticed the doll Ray knew was meant for Greta that Bernhard always kept close to him.

“It is true, what I said, that we did not have money to get all of us out at once—but that became a blessing. If we had been together when the assassin came for me, they could have been harmed too.”

From the other room, they heard Nora speak loudly to herself in frustration at something. Ray and Bernhard exchanged looks of silent agreement not to let Nora’s temper disturb their quiet conversation.

Bernhard, having completed work on one set of required documents, looked over at Ray with a curious expression.

“You are a scientist as well. Does your family keep you tethered to the earth when the ideas become like balloons, ready to float you away?”

Ray paused his work and closed his eyes briefly, Bernhard’s words poking at a chronic ache. He then resumed the work and admitted he did not have family. Bernhard shook his head. “You should. It is all that is truly important.”

“It—I mean, there was someone, and we’d hoped—um, it didn’t work out.” Before he could be misinterpreted, Ray clarified. “She died.” He spoke as though simply informing Bernhard of a fact—after several years he was practiced at not letting deeper feeling touch his brief explanations of Anna to people. 

Bernhard nevertheless heard what was beneath the surface; his own words were kind. “Ah. I am sorry to hear that.” Bernhard considered him speculatively, and then said, “You are someone who should have family. Children, too.”

Ray pondered these words as he worked on a passport, and then a thought struck him and he laughed suddenly to himself. Bernhard stared oddly at him and so Ray explained. “I have had family, of a sort—uh, a group of friends I’ve worked with. And they can be sort of childish at times.”

“Ah, yes,” Bernhard chuckled. “I have had such colleagues at the University.”

Ray couldn’t say that he didn’t have much hope of ever seeing them again. He intended to get Bernhard Vogel out of this nightmare, and show Nora she could make different choices than those her father laid out for her—or those Mallus had lured or forced her into—but even in this place that felt like a safe haven, he couldn’t allow himself to imagine safety or freedom for himself—too unlikely. This entire conversation felt strange—a moment of peace in the center of the chaos of their frantic attempt to escape younger Damien Darhk and make it to west Berlin, not to mention the chaos still at the edges of his mind, the gray room and the lingering sensation of choking that deep inside him felt more real than the cozily lighted space and new friend he sat with. 

He found energy enough to manage a cheerful smile and changed the topic to observations of Bernhard’s skillful photography work. He didn’t think Bernhard noticed the falseness of his mood, though of course Ray’s comments about the work were completely accurate.

But then Bernhard turned serious eyes to him, one hand now unconsciously clutching the doll. “I do not know still that I will survive to see my family. If I do not—and if you yourself escape this trap you are in—will you see to it that my family stays safe?”

For a moment Ray stared at him in astonishment. Bernhard continued, “I know it is a great deal to ask—but it would give me a sense of peace, to know someone looked out for them, and could protect them from my own rash foolishness.”

Ray shook his head vehemently. “Dr. Vogel, you will see them again yourself.”

“But if I cannot—“

Ray sighed. “Of course. If I—if I am able, I will do whatever I can to make sure they stay safe. I can’t guarantee it will be in my power.”

“You mean, you are unsure yourself if you will survive this adventure. I understand.” Ray saw compassion in his eyes—recognition, even if he did not fully understand it, of the difficult situation Ray was in. “But still, this eases me.” He gave Ray a tired, grateful smile. “You—you seem like you are a stubborn man.”


	7. Chapter 7:  Gideon and Sara

Some part of Ray expected that all of it—the shakiness, the terror, the sick cold feeling in his gut—would disappear after Wally whisked him back to the Waverider. Hoped.

Of course, none of it did. Oh, it felt amazing, the greetings from his friends, the quick hugs from Nate and Amaya and Zari, fleeting sensations of joy that something deep in him could not believe. He’d longed so profoundly for kind touch he thought he’d never feel again, and now the real presence of his friends only made him afraid that this could not possibly last. He covered that burst of anxiety with smiles, instinctively wanting to make sure they would not worry about him and would not see too deeply.

And when he saw Rip there on the bridge, he was thrilled. But he saw no welcome in Rip, in fact something in Rip’s face made Ray wary: disappointment.

That just tugged again at the sick, twisted feeling.

Then, when Ray heard about the break in time he’d created, and the consequence of it—Mallus closer to being able to escape and wreak destruction—all the exultation at seeing his friends and returning with the recipe for cold fusion that had been holding up his spirits evaporated, and shame swept through him. Guilty dread took him over then, especially in his stomach. He’d fucked up. 

He’d been telling himself that all of it—the unbearable pain and terror, the uncertainty—had been worth it But now—no. He’d done far more harm than good.

He thought hollowly that if he’d had a choice again, knowing it would be this bad, he would not have shot the Wall to summon rescue. He would have still been captive.

He tried not to let these thoughts change his demeanor. They should all blame him, of course—but they wouldn’t, not because he didn’t deserve it, but because they were used to disaster and in the face of it would just try and do the next thing that needed doing.

And the next thing that _he_ could do was construct a cold fusion device so it could be used to reconstitute the fire totem.

In the back of his mind, Ray still saw Bernhard Vogel, pleading with him to take the formula as Ray had tried to take him to safety. Ray still felt the wrench in his gut as Dr. Vogel had been shot dead beside him.

The irony tasted bitter: he’d spent years creating and refining the suit so that he wouldn’t be helpless anymore, would never have to see someone murdered again, and yet he still had been unable to protect Dr. Vogel. He’d failed the man.

*  
After he made his report on the bridge, Ray waited for a moment when everyone was distracted or off to focus on a new task, and then quietly retreated to his room.

As soon as he was alone, he heard Gideon speak. 

“Dr. Palmer—“

“I know. I’ll go to the med bay—soon. When no one else will be there.”

“The med bay is empty now.”

Ray smiled wryly.

*  
The cool blue lighting and colorful, detailed displays were reassuringly familiar to Ray as he settled into a slanted bed and let Gideon examine him.

“You show no signs of significant and visible physical injury.”

It was pretty much what Ray had expected. “Good—then I’ll just get to the lab—“ he said, getting off the med bay bed, aches causing him to move slowly.

“Dr. Palmer, I specified visible physical injury. You are not well.” 

He stopped, resigned, waiting for her report. “You show indications of increased and erratic heartrate at stimuli that do not normally cause this. Your blood pressure is much higher than your normal readings. You have not slept sufficiently. The mucus membranes in your sinus passages have been slightly damaged. Your breathing is frequently shallow.” She paused, and Ray could have sworn her voice became a degree more tactful. “Dr. Palmer, what did you experience while a captive of Ms. Kuasa, Mr. Darhk, and Ms. Darhk?”

Ray sighed, feeling anxiety take him over again. “Drowning. Choking. Electric shock. And—Damien Darhk did something else that felt extremely odd, I’m not sure what it was.” As he spoke he felt a strange distance from his own matter-of-fact, slightly hoarse words. A familiar dizziness and fuzziness at the edges of his vision hit him.

When she spoke again, Gideon’s voice was soothing. “Dr. Palmer, I can give you a non-addictive sleep aid and a medication to ease your hyper-arousal symptoms.”

“Thank you. Um, please don’t tell the team.”

“Dr. Palmer—“ she began.

He spoke abruptly to interrupt the protest. “I’ll tell Sara. As Captain, she should know I’m—not at full capacity.” He smiled to himself. “You can help if you want.”

“That is acceptable.”

*

The torture wasn’t the only thing he had to report to Sara.

He found her in the library, alone, playing solitaire as she likely thought through their next strategy, her blonde hair partially covering her pensive expression.

He spoke as she looked up questioningly. “Sara—I came here to say, I shouldn’t have caused the aberration.” He closed his eyes briefly, trying to keep his voice steady. “It was a lapse in judgment—I’ve been on this ship long enough to know better.”

“If you hadn’t done that, you’d still be a captive of the Darhks,” she said evenly.

“That doesn’t—isn’t—“ he faltered.

“We’ll deal with it,” she said with the forthrightness he always found so reassuring. Then her words were warm. “I’m glad to have you back.”

He didn’t reply to that, but knew she could read his discomfort all too easily on his face. She continued to regard him with a sharp assessment in her eyes, and then spoke again, this time with a careful gentleness. 

“Remember, I was the one who traded the medallion to Damien Darhk and Malcolm Merlyn for Marty’s life. I don’t regret that—and this is not much different.” Then she shrugged. “Sure, our enemies have a new advantage—but we have you back.“ She gave him a crooked smile. “Worth it.”

Ray felt a pang at the mention of Marty, and then an uncertain warmth at her words about him. It was good to hear she didn’t blame him. It didn’t change the guilt he felt.

He took in a deep breath to try to steady himself. “There’s something else you should know. I know that for all of you, I was gone for about three days. For me, it was two weeks. Before they tried to get me to help them—they spent about a week—“ He paused. Something had caught in his throat.

Sara’s expression had gone grim. “They tortured you.”

“Uh, yeah. Gideon knows—she’ll fill you in. It’s just—I’m going to focus on turning Vogel’s formula into a fusion reactor now”— _it’s the least I can do after the damage I’ve caused,_ he didn’t say. “But I’m not certain I’m in any state to do much else.”

Gideon interrupted. “Dr. Palmer is experiencing multiple symptoms resulting from severe psychological and physical trauma. Working in the lab should prove therapeutic to a degree, but he needs rest.”

Sara’s expression had now gone dark, and Ray immediately saw Sara’s own sense of guilt in the set of her shoulders. He had to do something about that, so he began talking, putting as much cheer as he could back into his voice and face.

“Hey—I’ll be OK. I’ll do what Gideon says and rest, and—I’ll be fine,” Ray lied with the best reassuring smile he could manage. 

Sara’s face was suddenly stubborn and long-suffering—not buying it.

“I mean,” he laughed slightly. “I’ve been through worse. It was only two weeks,” he shrugged a bit, “and now I’m home. They could have kept me for years while it was only a day here on the ship for all of you. Spending half a year shrunk with only cockroaches for company—and another half-year alone in the Cretaceous—two weeks was not nearly that bad.”

Sara sighed heavily. “Stop it, Ray. Previous trauma doesn’t negate this—and you forget, I know quite a bit about torture and what it can do to people.”

Ray froze and then looked down. Caught. 

Sara stood. “Ray,” she said quietly, and he glanced up, only to see a sorrow in her eyes that he couldn’t face. “I—“ her hand had started to move to his arm, but she stopped. “May I?”

He nodded, stunned by the kindness in her voice, feeling a wave of something like safety or joy or both ease the near constant shakiness in his stomach.

She moved slowly, respectfully, first with a warm touch on his arm, then, at his small smile, with strong arms around him.

He breathed. He held her small, muscled frame, and breathed.

Now that she couldn’t see him, now that he felt kind arms around him, Ray let himself feel an echo of the wash of convulsive tears as he’d thought of them all, deliberately, so many times to escape _the pull of the twine on his upper arms, his thighs, his shins, the cold wetness on his face, the crushing tightness in his chest as he sobbed._ She didn’t pull away, seemed to know he needed this safety. He’d been sure he’d never know anything like this again, and now he felt a nervousness at it, at how unlikely it seemed, had seemed. He had thought he would never be this fortunate again. He felt his breathing catch, the memory taking over a moment, and then he deliberately tried to relax. If he was shaking a bit, Sara’s arms held him steady, helped him contain the disorganized jumble of fear and joy in him.

Her voice was muffled and heavy with emotion when she spoke. “You’re not alone. Let Gideon do what she can for you, and let us take care of you, even if you don’t tell all of us about it.”

*  
Sara held him after she spoke, feeling his breathing even out. She was deliberately careful. A renewed deep fury at Darhk had been kindled in her again, now that she was beginning to find out how he’d hurt Ray, and she had to keep that fury controlled, at least for now. An overwhelming sense of protectiveness possessed her as she imagined briefly what he might have experienced. “You’re safe now,” she found herself promising him as he stepped back.

Ray had a grateful and warm smile on his face—this time genuine, unlike his earlier fake reassurances. “You’re a great team mom, you know,” he said softly, and the smile was now teasing. 

She smiled archly back. She still wasn’t fooled—that he could tease did not mean he was fine. The shadows in his eyes were still there too. But the fondness in his voice was real.

“Have to be, to keep you all in line.” She touched his arm. “Go—get some rest,” she urged gently.

As he left, she considered shrewdly what she’d observed. Her practiced eyes saw no signs of injury. She knew that it was possible to cruelly torment without any physical signs, so the absence of obvious injury did not reassure her,.

Now that his guard was down, she could see the exhaustion in his posture, the faint tremors in his hands just like what she felt in him during the hug, and the haunted quality in his eyes.

As soon she was alone, she spoke to the empty room, a hard edge to her voice. “Gideon, tell me everything you know about how Ray’s doing.”

*

Later, Sara trained in the cargo bay alone, striking her sparring dummy over and over.


	8. Chapter 8: disturbed sleep and gratitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Particular thanks to Sophie ([timetravelingpalmer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timetravelingpalmer)) and Stacey ([by_heart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/by_heart)) for beta-reading this specific chapter before posting!

Ray retreated to his room. He wanted to immediately begin work in the lab, but Sara was right.

So he lay down and tried to sleep. His body, he discovered, had forgotten to remember to breathe, so he made his breaths deliberate. His mind, too, did not want to cooperate. He thought through the equations from the doll, and this kind of thinking felt safe.

But as exhaustion took him, his mind loosened from that, and wandered.

He startled awake with a sick pull in his stomach. Bernhard Vogel looked up at him, eyes hopeless, and then a loud shot from the older Damien Darhk, and the cold that Ray felt wasn’t just from the brisk breeze on that rooftop, was a numb chillness throughout him. He felt the despairing certainty that he’d failed this good man, who’d only wanted to be with his family again and share his ideas with the world.

Ray was barely aware of getting up and of finding the sink and retching into it. He had nothing in him, and it was as though his body was trying to rid himself of the frozen memory. 

But Ray knew how this worked: that moment, Vogel’s death, was never leaving him.

As he eased himself to the floor and his body began to recover from the violent vomiting, he thought of the other task he had before him, not only to use cold fusion to reconstitute the fire totem, but also—Bernhard’s family. He had promised.

He found his voice again and hoarsely called for Gideon to quietly set plans into place.

Gideon not only cooperated but was able to tell him that Bernhard’s family had made it safely to New York, with the help of his colleagues at Columbia University, and in the years immediately following experienced no harassment or danger.

It was not what Bernhard had had in mind when he’d asked Ray to make sure they were OK—but it fulfilled the most basic part of his promise. Ray had other ideas about what looking after them should entail, and he decided that he would talk with Sara about borrowing the jump ship to take care of a few things once the time seemed right for that.

Then, as Ray had expected, Gideon insisted that he report to the med bay again. She had already, earlier, given him futuristic meds that she and he had agreed on—he’d recognized quite a bit of it from what he remembered she’d done for Mick after Chronos.

Now she was insisting on an old-fashioned IV of nutrients, either that or a meal in the galley, and the thought of that still turned his stomach.

That’s how he found himself on a med bay bed again.

He was already starting to feel a bit better, just from the calming meds Gideon had given him earlier, but Ray knew from experience that there would be no quick or easy recovery. What he had said to Sara was right, in part—he’d dealt with similar and in some ways worse experiences. He had not mentioned to her the one trauma that had been worse than any of them, that last day with Anna—Sara already knew about that, anyway. In some ways he’d never recovered from that—or any of the others—and each one had necessitated that he do many things to even begin to approach something like a new normal. 

So, Ray had some idea of what to do next. His first instinct was work, and it was a gift that he had something as challenging as the cold fusion equations to focus on. He wanted to jump head first into that—longed to be back in his lab—but he knew he needed other things too.

After six months alone in a construction site, alternately starving and running from cockroaches, he’d been lost. Felicity and eventually Team Arrow had given him projects and the opportunity to help, but the isolation had never quite seemed to leave him.

After six months alone in the Cretaceous, alternately starving and running from prehistoric creatures, he had been back on the Waverider, back home, like he was now. He had felt such joy then, once the shock of being rescued had faded.

That was what he needed to focus on now—that joy. He was, after all, home again, he reminded himself, even if it felt just a bit terrifying to believe it. He deliberately remembered what Sara has said to him as she’d held him, and he knew that once he could believe those things, he would be better.

He thought of the kindness, the determination, and the fire in Sara’s eyes after he’d told her. He was so lucky. And she, and all of them, had worked so hard to try to find him. That’s what he had to focus on—that gratitude. That’s what he could do—for himself, really, more than them—he could thank each of them.

He started with Nate.


	9. Chapter 9:  Amaya, Mick, Gary, back in the lab

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Particular thanks to Stacey (by_heart) and Sophie (timetravelingpalmer) for their supportive beta-ing.

Amaya was finishing gathering items for a meal that she was taking back to share with Nathaniel when she saw Ray walk up to Mick, and she knew right away what it was about. Ray had sought out Amaya already and told her of his gratitude, his hands nervously clutched together, his brown eyes steady and utterly earnest. He’d also admitted that he’d thought, while he’d been captured, that he’d never told her something, and he should have, and then he’d spoken, still awkward and sincere, of how deeply he valued her respect. He said this a bit oddly, as though he was puzzled at how he had managed to earn it.

She wished he could be more at ease, but did not know how to help with that, so she’d simply accepted his words.

Now, he was trying to thank Mick, who was devouring a plate of donuts and a novel at the same time, looking up grumpily at Ray. Ray didn’t seem deterred.

“I didn’t do much besides dress up funny and listen to a lot of music,” Mick grumbled, lowering his book as he made his point. Amaya wondered why he didn’t want to accept Ray’s thanks. What Mick said was true, but Amaya knew that Mick understood it wasn’t really what Ray was grateful for.

“Still, thank you.” Amaya thought she saw, just for a moment, a pained expression on Mick’s weathered face at these warmly delivered words. Mick hid it quickly--Amaya couldn’t tell if Ray noticed--and turned away and back to the paperback he’d been trying to read. 

This time, his voice was even gruffer. “Nothin’ we did really helped find you, until you blasted the Berlin Wall.”

There was a quiet lightness in Ray’s response--Amaya was happy to see Mick’s harshness didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. “Even so, you all tried.”

Knowing that conversation was far from over, Amaya smiled fondly and shook her head as she left for Nathaniel’s room.  
*

Gary turned off the visual link and thought to himself, well, that was nice. He hadn’t expected Ray Palmer to call him and express such gratitude—Gary didn’t get much thanks for what he did, he thought sadly. Occasionally Ava was grudgingly appreciative.

And Ray looked and sounded much better than he had in the video they’d found—much more cheerful.

Gary had regretfully explained that not only had the video not provided any real leads, but the entire Time Agency had had no luck figuring out where and when the Darhks had taken Ray. 

Ray, though, stayed chipper, just surprised to hear that so much effort had gone into trying to find him. Then he seemed troubled a moment, and Gary very tactfully did not bring up what he thought was bothering Ray—the aberration that had actually led to his rescue. (Gary thought, he could approach a situation with appropriate delicacy, no matter what the others said.)

Then Ray became solemn and expressed condolences on the loss of their Director, and Gary accepted them (though Bennett had barely tolerated Gary in a way that made Ava’s exasperation with him seem affectionate—which, really, it was.)

So, that had been a pleasant interlude in an otherwise overwhelmingly busy day.

  

*  
After making rounds and finding who he could to thank them, Ray returned, in a determined daze, to his lab. Even with the constant emotional exertion of pushing aside nausea and aches and shaky fear, being in the dear familiar space felt right. This was home, the clear table top he was about to cover with the clutter of his work, the clear marker boards, the equipment carefully organized—he knew every part of the large space, knew where he could find exactly what he needed. He felt a profound gratitude to be back here, and even if it was accompanied by a sense that this was wrong, that he was never supposed to have returned, he could still let the peace of it become part of him again.


	10. Chapter 10:  Zari

Zari thought to herself that she was crap at this welcoming a newcomer onboard thing.

Sure, she’d do it—how could she not, when workaholic Ray, obsessed with his cold fusion equations and plans, had asked her?—after he’d come round with his heartfelt thanks for her part in trying to find him.

He’d made his request regretfully, sheepishly, explaining that he couldn’t leave his work, and she read between the lines easily enough: he just didn’t have it in him to do for Wally what he’d done for her right now. 

She still didn’t know exactly what had happened to him with the Darhks, and Gideon wasn’t talking about the specifics—though she’d at least admitted that Ray had sought help from her. But he wouldn’t talk about it. His asking her to take on his role—one she was sure he’d normally be all too happy to do—was as close to an admission as she figured she was going to get that he was Not OK.

Nevertheless, when it came to babysitting Wally, she just didn’t care, and Wally didn’t need it--he was already good buddies with Nate, had been recruited by the renowned Rip Hunter himself, and had then had a peptalk from the current Captain. He’d be fine.

Still, she went through the motions. It was the least she could do for Ray—the only thing he seemed willing to allow. She was more than a little alarmed at how very driven he was. He hadn’t even started to build anything—was still only studying and playing with the equations from that doll—but his manner as he worked in the lab, sometimes hunched over a table, sometimes pacing excitedly or obsessively in front of a clear marker board filled with his scribbles, was a bit too much like that of the mad scientist from old black and white films over a hundred years before her time. It was as though he was caught in his own world, and it worried her.

So, after she’d done the bare minimum to get the speedster settled and familiar with the ship, and after encouraging him to talk to every other crew member for their suggestions, including Gideon, Zari checked back in at the lab.

She found Ray sitting on a tall, armless chair and bent over the worktable, with his head pillowed on his arms. A half-empty cup of tea sat within arm’s reach--no doubt one of his own particular herbal mixtures. Papers with his scribbled notes and equations surrounded him. Now that he was not awake to hide behind his enthusiasm for the concepts, his face looked so tired, just like in the hostage video.

She left quietly and returned with a blanket and carefully put it around his shoulders, then found work of her own—an algorithm Gideon had agreed to collaborate with her on—so she’d be there when he woke up, which she hoped was a long time from now.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to these good folks who have supported me in writing this. 
> 
> My colleague Michael Carriere provided invaluable technical know how and unreserved enthusiasm (I never would have thought of the scent of ionized air but for him). 
> 
> Sol LeTeire provides me with necessary insight and snark. Oh, and he helps with the writing too.
> 
> Megan gave me attentive and delightful and useful comments. Find Megan's writing at [meganbagels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meganbagels). It's delicious and subtle. 
> 
> Sophia has provided thoughtful and real and detailed responses--later bits of this fic are distinctly stronger for their input. Find their work at: [Sophia Catherine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophiaCatherine). Check out in particular their Zari and Ray friendship stories, especially Chapter 17, "Freedom" of _Waverider Wanderings_ \--just the most beautiful thing.
> 
> Sophie has given me wonderful encouragement and helped me finalize a key moment in this first installment. Find her work at [timetravelingpalmer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timetravelingpalmer). 
> 
> Hans, with lovely detailed feedback and attention to craft, is helping me with the next few chapters; find their work here: [purpleyin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleyin).
> 
> Stacey has been providing steady support, keen insights, and useful suggestions; her work is here: [by_heart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/by_heart)
> 
> And [inkling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkling) encouraged me to use all five senses which led me to add significant material to Chapter 5; she's creakygeekery on Tumblr.
> 
> Oh, and find me on Tumblr: unwittingcatalyst.


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